


Home is where the Heart is

by HQ_Wingster



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Awkward Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Bonding, Character Study, Comfort, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Families of Choice, Family Reunions, Gen, Goodbyes, Hugs, Memories, Returning Home, Reunions, Soldiers, Story within a Story, Waiting, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 11:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15242595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HQ_Wingster/pseuds/HQ_Wingster
Summary: I solemnly swear that I will devote my life to serving -- the weak, the confused, the hurt, the frightened, and every hand that comes within my reach.Every morning, when home seemed so far away, Connor would repeat his vow when he pulled his dog tag out from under his shirt. The metal plates clinked together, just below his fingers, as sunlight glinted along the edge with a silver touch. In quiet moments where all Connor could hear were his breaths, perhaps they were little reminders that ticked the days he had left before coming home.Home’-- Connor realized he was the last one in his barrack that morning. Slipping his dog tag below his shirt collar, Connor slipped into his boots and slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. The weight of three years felt as light as a feather with every step before him. Once under the sun, bathed with the rest of the descendants from an unsung horizon, the promised plane touched the landing strip. Not a voice was unheard when‘home’etched itself over the hundreds of rejoices that trumpeted its call.





	Home is where the Heart is

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes when you want to read a particular kind of story, you have to write it for yourself.

_ The reason we do what we do _  
_ is that it must be done. _

 

 

_ ‘Hold on, just a little while longer’  _ \-- the barest whisper of the melody fluttered over and between the awaiting soldiers. Where one mouth looked to another, where one verse slipped to a ghostly choir sewn into the seams of a beating heart.

As soon as the last bus left, dust settled over the landscape once more. Enough where particles hung through the slip of an eyelash when Connor blinked in a moment’s glance. Simply raising his head as goodbyes and tears were shed on a battlefield, where everyone had made it out alive. Where dog tags were free from underneath a shirt and the metal plates were as bright as any medal that a soldier could wear.

It was their badge, their remembrance, that they didn’t die. That all of this wasn’t just a dream, enveloped over an eye before an inevitable sleep on a stretcher or beneath the rubble where dust compelled the heart to grow still.

The glints of silver against the sunset drew a finger down Connor’s shirt as he fished for his dog tag. Hung loosely over the chain, much as how his life had been on a similar line, were two plates. One bore his name, his birth date, his blood type, and his hometown. The other bore his number, his rank, and the division squad he was assigned to when his feet crunched over a new chapter to a three-year-long tale. It was hard to believe how quickly, yet slowly, time had passed between then and now. All of that weight, in which the bulk consisted of the duffel bag between Connor’s feet, felt its heaviest when the chain of his dog tag slipped from between Connor’s fingertips. The metal plates collided against his chest, a  _ clink  _ to their jostle before they rested over his heart.

His fingers migrated down the length of the chain and touched the plates once more. A peel as one plate was separated from the other, interlocked between a few fingers as Connor grazed the other with his fingertip.

Everything would be alright.

_ ‘Fight on, just a little longer’  _ \-- such words had yet to fall on deaf ears. Such words had yet to fall, in the moment, when the words barely flew from their descended perch.

Even those who hadn’t opened their mouths to sing, their hearts filled the gaps in the crowd as, collectively, they all did sing as one and a few parted from the rest. As cars emerged from over the horizon, bearing with them a safe haven that a soldier could run to.

The war never ended, even when a gun and a blade were switched for pen and paper to write to those who had fallen and to those whom still had yet to stand. For the greatest war, the one that no one ever signed up for, still waged within the confines of the mind when a tender embrace held on for just a little longer.

The community hymn drifted, from one patch to another, as people spilled from each other’s arms and reunited with their families before the war. Where a uniform held the breath of a desert howl, the eyes of a prey switched for that of a successful predator’s when consented touches were exchanged.

It must’ve been hard to smile. It must’ve been hard to pretend that nothing had changed in three years. It must’ve been hard to know that a piece of themselves was still wandering in Uruk, still looking over a shoulder when red stars ignited the night with their fervor.

_ ‘Sing on, just a little longer’  _ \-- the third verse rested upon Connor’s shoulders when the words flew from his lips.

Fixated on the clouds, Connor reeled his gaze downwards and watched as soldiers rose from their posts. Duffel bags slung over their shoulder, hats straightened before the final salute, and the click of boots against gravel as their voices rose into the great solemn that blanketed the community hymn.

Medics, foot soldiers, aids in natural disasters, the supply managers, the cooks, the free-spirited who couldn’t help but sing at the crack-of-dawn runs, the same squads that had each other’s backs, the lovers, the fighters, the huggers, and then... _ there was Connor. _

_ “Everything will be alright.”  _ The last phrase stuck as an echo when Connor dropped his gaze.

The only sound that came afterwards was the jingle of his dog tag as the metal plates bumped against each other. The wind had picked up, sifting sand through clothes and hair and chiseling shapes within faces and leaving behind a taste that toothpaste couldn’t erase.

In the moment of everything, pages were written and bore every soldier’s name.

These stories --  _ each narrative wove between every living heart  _ \-- were one of the few souvenirs where an option to deny wasn’t listed. Some stories stuck out more than others, some stories were more painful than others, but the narration and the tick of events to where every soldier stood today had written the full-fledged ending of their arrival home. To where the epilogue would go, that was a personal story where a mouth proved mightier than the pen. When a tongue licked the roof of a mouth or across the etch between the lips, to speak produced the same still as a gunshot did before a bullet ricocheted out from a barrel. A mere echo of the impact forever resounded in a fragile mental space when Connor closed his eyes.

The pitter patter of his fiddling fingers ceased. There was too much sound. All around him. Simply more than the mind could endure. Too many bodies coming and going, almost all at once from certain parts of the community. Resting a hand over the right of his temple, Connor applied pressure as he sang the community hymn under his breath. Once more.

He didn’t think about the words, or what they meant. He merely spoke with a sort of melody that comforted what a bandage couldn’t, that warmed him like a night camped under the stars, and the softness etched from every phrase lulled Connor from a few thoughts. Thoughts that he thought he had long overcome. Nevertheless, back then, they were merely shadows to the monsters that quaked from the corner of his mind as Connor wrestled for a compromise.

Just as his hand slipped into the tin box on his lap, scrambled with loose change that people gave to him as they passed.

The tinkering of copper, silver, zinc, and nickel resonated memories that felt tangible between Connor’s fingers when he lifted a coin from its pile.  _ Fascinating  _ \-- how the mind could reshape and distract itself from an overload of stimuli if it were to fixate on a single, simple item. In this instance, it was a quarter. An old sliver from the year 2018, two decades ago, with all things considering when Connor rubbed his thumb over the faded face of George Washington.

The prominent  _ ‘Liberty’  _ just below the president’s chin had taken on a new meaning against Connor’s touch. So, too, in the promise of a religious being to whom humanity bore their trust up to. Such ideas hadn’t faded in the test of time or from the whip-crack from Uruk’s front lines if Connor’s memory served right within this moment. Within this span of time where there was simply him and this quarter on the outskirts of Michigan, fifty miles from Detroit if someone could map it out.

Lost in thought, Connor flipped the coin into the air. A signature  _ ‘clink’  _ against his thumbnail before the coin spiraled through the pages written in Connor’s memoir --  _ tucked in a space where one foot took a step forward, whereas the other held its place in the past.  _ Whereas the repetition of a simple movement made each verse of the community hymn so much sweeter over Connor’s tongue before the quarter rolled across the back of his fingers.

“Connor?” A voice broke through the calm Connor had built around himself. He didn’t need to turn his head to recognize who had spoken, but his head turned anyway. He looked over his shoulder, from the corner of his eye, Kara from the Medic Division approached the slab of concrete that served as Connor’s perch.

Both of her hands were behind her back to bestow a coin upon Connor to remember her by.  _ ‘Pennies for his thoughts’,  _ as some soldiers had called him if they needed good luck before a mission or simply guidance when one was unsure of the choices ahead of them.

In Kara’s position, she was here for neither. Simply to shake Connor’s hand, wish him a farewell, and quietly hold onto the belief that her time in Uruk was over. As much Connor had read those motives from her body language, as much as Kara could read Connor’s. She stood still, bending down slightly so that Connor could comfortably reach up. He brushed a few of Kara’s bangs across and behind her ear just as the wind picked up.

He had done a gesture, so similar to this, once before.

 

 

_ I can’t change the world. _ __  
_ But if I could change one life, _ _  
_ __ It would mean the world to that person.

 

 

From a personal standpoint -- Kara Winsworth came from a small, suburban neighborhood near the outskirts of Detroit’s reconstruction. A pleasant individual to all she had ever spoke to and bore the weight of her choices when she boarded the plane to Uruk. Hand in hand, a duffel bag and a modest suitcase before she turned and looked over her shoulder. A familiar horizon edged the tip of Detroit when she said her goodbyes, almost nudged along by another soldier because of how long she stood and squinted into the crowd so many had to leave behind.

_ “We have to go. Now!”  _ It took the hand-touch of another to compel Kara to walk, for her to move, and that was the last hesitation anyone ever found from her. From the moment the latch closed, everyone’s past lives were put on hold as a new novel wove the beginning of a collective tale. As one of the last to board, there were almost nowhere to sit until someone scooted over and allowed Kara to slip through.

“Thank you,” she murmured, resting her belongings between her feet. Unable to meet the stranger’s eyes, but her eyes drew downwards and watched as a quarter rolled over the back of the man’s fingers. As if in a dance and when the plane took off, the man settled with simply flipping his coin into the air before he caught Kara’s eyes. She looked at her feet instead, nudging her belongings closer to herself as to not draw focus. “I’m sorry, I…”

Kara’s voice trailed off when the man offered his quarter to her. He seemed intent on it, focused on giving her a small comfort object for a reason Kara couldn’t discern yet, but she accepted the gift. She squeezed the coin against her palm as the man fished for another quarter and performed a myriad of other tricks with a simple touch, alone.

“My name is Connor.” Back and forth, his coin changed from one hand to another in what looked like a speed run, pass-off against himself. When he caught his quarter between his fingers, Connor gave his undivided attention to Kara. Managed a grin that didn’t quite touch his eyes, but it was a genuine gesture on his part when his brows creased in a sincere apology.

All of this must’ve seemed strange. On the contrary, it was like a touch of home.

 

From a professional standpoint -- Kara Winsworth wore all of her merits upon her sleeves, all of which had become her own to keep in the three years she served in one of the many medical teams sent to Uruk. Such a mouthful to say --  _ Kara had written, once, in a letter to her family  _ \-- but it proved in due diligence that she was nothing short and nothing less than the medic she signed to be.

Stationed in one of the most dangerous political boundaries in the developing world, nothing could be short from adaptable if not perfect. Where at any moment, regardless of political affiliation, patients would be coming through the doors seeking for aid. On-call wasn’t just an option, but a way of life for those who were intimate with the political strife. Where every day, one wouldn’t know if the desert landscape was either bathed in red or gold. This was the basic description attached to Kara’s profile, knitted to her name and to every stitch that held her together when she donned her white coat and mask, but Kara was more than simply a face lingering behind a profession.

Every morning, almost without fail, the simmering waft of sweet coffee drifted from Site 51’s Medicube. Not as intimate with the political border as other sites, but one could hear their fair share of bullets and displacement from over the horizon in the stillness at dusk and dawn. If ever a soldier needed their health inspected or work done, they took themselves down a rugged path to where the Medicube was situated next to a crumbling, forgotten city left behind due to the conflict.

True to its name, the Medicube was a transportable health facility engineered into the exact dimensions of a cube. For what purpose? Perhaps, for the affectionate name that rolled off the tongue when a soldier knocked and opened the door. Upon entering through the south side, the waft of coffee lured a soldier past the threshold and through a narrow hall. Where rooms branched off; however, if one were to simply follow the path, they would eventually enter the screening room.

Like a typical doctor’s office, with small succulent plants lounged near the window, and a few tables set aside for the other medical personnel that occupied the same space. A fresh brew of coffee sat on Kara’s table, where her white coat was folded neatly onto her chair. Her whereabouts were evidently clear when one caught her hums. Lost in thought, appeared to be fiddling with a chain necklace between her fingers, Kara came closer to the window. Enough where a faint outline of her reflection was painted back to her and there, she turned her head over her shoulder and asked her patient to take a seat. In whichever chair seemed comfortable while Kara pulled her white coat on.

She was methodical in her approach, easily swept by the nature of her work and of whom she worked with as she gazed down at a clipboard of medical history. Asked simple questions, received simple answers in return. There was almost a formula to how everything was done, and Connor remembered every cue and every line of Kara’s script until she took him by surprise. Or perhaps, he took hers.

“Are you afraid of needles?” Kara asked him once, unsheathing her tool of choice before she approached Connor with a gentle hand. Her touch steadied the shake of Connor’s arm. Connor darted his gaze elsewhere when he caught the glint of the needle’s prick.

“I feel uncomfortable around them,” he managed to say. A tightness to his throat when from the corner of his eye, Connor followed the path of Kara’s needle when it hovered close over his skin. Not yet pierced as Kara searched for a vein down the length of Connor’s arm.

A slight jingle of a chain distracted Connor for a moment, shifted his attention towards a necklace hidden beneath the looseness of Kara’s shirt. Where through a few gaps from the top buttons, he could make out the silver chain and what appeared to be two metal plates for a dog tag. In the seconds that followed, Connor had loosely forgotten of where he was until he heard the jingle of how the necklace moved under Kara’s shirt before she pressed a hand over it so it wouldn’t move. Only then -- and perhaps too late for an apology on Connor’s part when he realized the slight part to his lips -- Connor realized how he was positioned and how Kara could’ve easily mistaken...

“I’m sorry.” Connor tilted his head down, staring at the individual squares along the floor. From the corner of his eye, blurry but sharpened when focused upon, he noticed how Kara’s hand trembled slightly over one of his veins before she pulled her touch away.  _ “I wasn’t -- I heard your -- “ _ Concise thoughts turned to jumbled mush as Connor tried to make sense of what he was saying.

“Luther and Alice.” The names came abruptly, taking Connor a moment to process as Kara pulled up her chair and sat in front of him. Close enough where their knees could’ve brushed if she scooted an inch forward, but she kept her space when she saw the whites of Connor’s knuckles. Of how tightly he held onto the edge to remind himself of reality, of how slowly the tension eased with a reassuring touch when Kara traced shapes over the back of Connor’s hand. “Despite how far I am from my family, wearing their names reminds me that they’re closer than I think.”

She glanced up, hoping to meet Connor’s gaze, but he was still fixated at her hands. Unable to reach out at first, but his fingers slowly moved and bumped against Kara’s fingertips as a sort of test for how she was feeling right now.

“That’s…” Connor’s voice trailed off when Kara tightened her hold, just a bit. More as reassurance for her sake in the stillness of the moment.

“I wasn’t sure if it was okay to have their names like this.” It would be easy to laugh if the worry hadn’t bothered her so. “Most people would bring pictures or little knick knacks to remember their family by. I didn’t want people to think that I was disrespecting -- “

“It’s in memory.” Connor loosened his touch and slipped his hands out from Kara’s hold. Simply, so he could cradle her hands and keep them together before they crumbled apart. For the first time, he matched Kara’s gaze. “We keep close to our heart what’s preserved in memory.”

Against his beating heart, Connor wore his identity. Just a shred of it when he felt lost in Uruk’s heat, or when his mind wandered to a reality that wasn’t written this way. In remembrance of himself and of why he was here, Connor kept his identity close to his heart so he never strayed from his path as the man he wanted to be.

Kara nodded quietly, more-so to herself for reassurance, before she loosened out from Connor’s hold and finished what he came for her for. Simple blood work with a needle involved, and Kara searched Connor’s arm for a vein once more. When found, she prompted Connor to look up at the ceiling and count every square within his sight.

“Thirty-seven,” slipped from Connor’s lips. A bit of a smile grew when he saw Kara’s, and she rubbed his arm affectionately and asked if he could recount those squares. Only once more and the needle would be done before Connor would finish. Kara promised him that and Connor was dutiful in following her order.

With Connor’s mind at ease, Kara bent down slightly as she inserted the tip of the needle into Connor’s arm. Her bangs slipped from the hold of her ponytail and obscured her gaze for a moment. About to brush her bangs to the side, but she felt Connor’s touch first. He swept the stray hairs over and behind Kara’s ear, almost as quickly as it took Kara to remind herself to breathe after the sudden gesture.

Connor wore an innocent tilt to his face before he looked up at the ceiling again, quietly whispering numbers to himself before Kara felt a shred of reality return to her. Taking what she could get, she steadied her hands as she drew blood. A sharp whistle slipped from between Connor’s teeth, and he held the note for as long as it took until Kara slipped the needle out from his arm. A tiny bruise had already begun to form over the spot, but would quickly be patched over by Connor’s choice of a band-aid. A standard issued one, or one that had a miniature St. Bernard over it.

He pointed to that one, and Kara gently rubbed the band-aid over Connor’s bruise.

 

 

_ Love compels us to do things, _ _  
_ _ that others can do for themselves. _

 

 

A wise individual once stated that a maple leaf promised the return of a loved one. Though the message was merely a quote, though its words were meant more for a lover than any other love, it didn’t stop Alice from believing. It hardly stopped her when she collected maple leaves, every day for the past month, and held her collection within a leather album. Snugged against her chest, her chin rested over the crook of a corner, Alice embraced her belief until Luther softly poked at her arm.

“The more I hug this album, the stronger my hugs will be when we see Kara.” A sliver of orange from one of the leaves shone back in Alice’s eyes when she propped her album open. A finger poised at a corner, ready to turn the page at a moment’s notice.

She had a unique way of making sense of the world, a wonderful gift that poked a smile over Luther’s face. Just before he pulled a hand from the steering wheel and gently patted the collection of maple leaves. Each pat was heavy like a heartbeat, giving the collection an ethereal reminder of how fragile life could be. Especially now, especially since a long trail of others had come to collect their own maple leaf amongst the few hundred that had returned from Uruk.

The trickle of the radio could barely stencil how much Alice had fidgeted within her seat, peeking for a good look as Luther drove the car closer to the pickup spot. Her seatbelt strapped her back for good reason, reminding Alice that she had to be patient. To wait her turn, knowing that many others had waited just as long to reunite with a friend, a lover, a family member, and perhaps someone more or just as equal. Lines creased the expanse of Alice’s forehead when she squinted her eyes, trying to discern between the uniforms and casual clothes that pittered the pickup spot like the back of a paintbrush.

“Luther,” Alice turned the radio off when she slumped back into her seat, “I don’t know if I’ll recognize Kara when we see her.”

For a moment, Luther pulled his gaze from the road and watched as Alice held her collection tightly. Not tight enough where her knuckles turned white, but enough where her hands shook. Enough where Alice’s eyes narrowed before she closed them, a trail of her bangs slipped from her ponytail and curtained over her eyes in the briefest moment where she hoped her statement wasn’t true. But perhaps deep down, it was the one truth that bothered Alice the most right now.

It was easy to say to one’s self that nothing really had changed in the past three years, but it was a fool’s thought-process. And so be it, Alice wasn’t a fool when she unsheathed Kara’s handwritten letters from the envelopes within her coat pocket. Simply touching the words, touching where Kara had touched once before gave some semblance of closure within Alice’s mind. Bit of closure that while Kara changed, still bits and pieces of herself that hadn’t changed would still be apparent with more than a noticing glance.

That was true,  _ right?  _ Alice spoke with her eyes when she looked to Luther from her corner, a frown sketched where a smile should’ve been.

“If Kara did change,” Luther spoke carefully when Alice grasped to each of his words, “I think her heart grew twice as big.” From the corner of his eye, he found a puzzled expression from Alice. The signature raise of an eyebrow, the slight part to the lips, how Alice felt relaxed enough to slouch her hold over her maple leaf collection when she pondered at Luther’s words. Trying to decipher the meaning behind them, but they were merely words at their simplest state. Hence, it garnered another thought from Alice.

“If her heart keeps growing, won’t it pop?” An innocent question begged for an innocent answer -- but even so, it was difficult to tell if Alice wanted a simple reasoning when she rested her hand against the side of Luther’s arm.

Luther considered this when he eased the car into a stop, an affectionate warmth over his eyes when a young man reunited with his father, just two cars in front. Even without knowing the persons, he could feel their love. How it radiated and touched and eased a waiting heart until a familiar face came from around a corner. It was the  _ pitter patter  _ of Luther’s thumb against the steering wheel before he turned, his face like a mirror to an event that he would never forget. And so, he imparted this gift onto Alice.

“The beauty behind love is that we create more than what we can hold, so we share it to fill other’s with our love.” It was simple, so simple that it was easy for it be deceptive. However, it wasn’t.

Luther guided his hand and gestured to the love that was around him and Alice. How the emotion struck a different color over the scene, a different tint by how the sun was angled to give the landscape a golden glow.

Gold, for perhaps so many had found the treasure they were looking for in the arms, in the voice, and in the familiar breath of someone coming home.

Much as how the wise individual from the internet had woven their message along the seams of Alice’s heart, so too did a needle sew Luther’s words. With gold and red thread to match the highlights of the dry landscape as Alice repeated Luther’s words underneath her breath. Her hand pressed against the window when she peered out, looking for the flicker of her familiar face.

If every trace of her finger along the glass could lead Alice to Kara, perhaps it did just that. For an absent trail struck from a need slowly circled the face of an individual that almost looked away before she saw a familiar car drive up to the curb. Like a deer caught in front of headlights, Kara didn’t move. Frozen with her hand behind her, holding onto her suitcase. Frozen with her duffel bag in front of her, having to place it down when she couldn’t hold it for much longer. Frozen within her white coat, where her necklace rocked against the breeze. The two metal plates, bearing Luther and Alice’s name, chimed like a memory when Kara slowly raised her hand and waved.

It was rather funny of how people typically described love at first sight -- palms sweating, a sudden melody to a heartbeat, dilatation of the eyes, and the perk of a smile before one could imagine a future kiss. So few ever talked about the tears that resonated behind a gaze, how a seatbelt wrestled like a demon when hands fiddled to free the body, how a door felt too heavy against a frame before it propped open in a mad dash, how every step felt slow and heavy in the run. Where Alice fluttered like a fledgling from a branch, trying to keep afloat in the slow descent before she landed on a nimble branch. Struggling for a balance in a moment’s glance before Kara’s wing affectionately snugged her close and far from harm’s reach.

In a real sense -- without the bird analogy -- Alice found her place when she leapt into Kara’s arms, and Kara cradled her tightly in a soft spin. Around and around in circles as tears stained the front of her white coat. Kisses pressed against Alice’s forehead, slowly migrating down to a cheek. Left or right? Kara chose both before she wiped Alice’s tears with the edge of her thumb. More human that she had ever been now that Kara could see Alice’s smile. Not from her imagination, but before her very eyes. Just before Alice wrapped her arms around Kara’s neck, holding her close in their embrace.

Alas, this puzzle wasn’t complete when Kara turned her head and watched as Luther stepped out from the car. Shutting the door quietly behind him as he did, a hand behind his neck when he met Kara’s gaze. Unsure of what to say. He had spoken so much with Alice, the two formulating everything they wanted to converse when Kara was near, but the plan was lost in the back of Luther’s mind when he remained idle in his spot. Perhaps, to simply admire before he could join. Perhaps, to reiterate to himself that this moment wasn’t just a dream that kept him and Alice abuzzed at night, for the past month or so.

_ You’re not dreaming  _ \-- chirped one bird to another. Kara beckoned with her head for Luther to come, and almost nothing could prepare her for when Luther did. When Alice leapt into her arms, it was a gesture that Kara could predict. She could time when to extend her arms and catch Alice. But for Luther, Kara wasn’t sure what would come. Especially when Alice wiggled in her arms, turning her head just in time when Luther swept Kara off from her feet.

Alice and Luther’s names were adorn with a subtle orange, outlined by the sun when Kara’s necklace fluttered into the air before falling softly against the front of her shirt. Where a yelp crumbled into laughter when Kara lightly punched Luther’s shoulder when he spun her and Alice around in his arms. For they were his treasures -- as bright as any gold or silver. When his heart came close to bursting, came close to popping from the weight and happiness of Kara coming home, Luther froze momentarily in his spins. Opted to simply his forehead against Kara and Alice’s because the triangle was whole again. Every point present and accounted for, and no other shape was as strong as this. No other shape could come close in bringing a family together again before Luther settled Kara and Alice back onto their feet.

After a rush of emotion, after so many spins, Kara supported Luther when he needed a shoulder to lean on. There was a skip to Alice’s steps when she wheeled Kara’s suitcase behind her. Her collection of maple leaves were safely tucked under her arm when she followed from behind. Her breath puffed out, blowing a few strands of hair away from her eyes so she could see Kara clearly.

“He missed you a lot.” Alice nudged Luther with her elbow, and Luther nudged back as a smile grew over his lips.

_ “We  _ missed you a lot,” he corrected. The rumble of his laughter reverberated like a familiar song from the radio. Even though Kara said she could hold onto her duffel bag without too much trouble, she eventually shared the handle with Luther when he said he could help. As unsteady on his feet as he was in the moment, his grip was strong. Luther held onto the bulk of the duffel bag’s weight, leaving the lighter end for Kara to hold as they approached the car.

With the back door open, Kara hid her smile behind the palm of her hand when she saw what waited for her. A fleece blanket from the living room -- sewn with polka dots and of her name, a Ziploc bag filled with cereal and almonds for strength, a thermos sat in the cup holder -- rich with hot chocolate, and it was like being a kid again when Kara seated herself. As Alice buckled Kara’s seatbelt, Luther carefully tucked Kara beneath the fleece blanket to keep her warm and comforted.

It was so strange. Kara could understand why Alice and Luther were doing all of this, but she wondered what she had done to have deserved this.

Her eyelashes fluttered with every blink, tears burned from the corner of her eyes before they slipped. Marking down the quiet of a stream over the curve of her cheek. Noticed by Luther and Alice when they got into the car, but they didn’t say anything. This was their last gift for Kara -- distance until she needed their company again.

Between her tears, between this moment where she sat between and behind Alice and Luther, Kara leaned forward and wrapped her arms around their shoulders. Holding them close.  _ “Thank you.” _

No word or language could even come close to describe how she felt. Just to nuzzle her cheek against Alice and Luther’s spoke more than what her tongue could do, alone, when every word Kara wanted to say died in her throat. Merely because the names she always carried were now tangible to her reach.

 

 

_ If home is where the heart is, _ _  
_ _ then I know where I’m supposed to be. _

 

 

_ So, too, she loved the world. In turn -- so, too, the world loved her. _

On a night, where only his breath kept him company, the whispered phrase through an earpiece lulled Connor’s heart into ease. Tucked under his gear with a spoon fresh in his mouth, a ration of beans and rice under a starry night turned into a comfort meal. The ammunition strapped to Connor’s torso transformed into napkins, tucked to every pocket sewn across his uniform. Knees pressed against his chest, like that of a child’s before dinner’s summoning. The stale beans tasted a bit like the canned version that plopped into a cast-iron pan back in Hank’s kitchen, how he scraped the last of the stubborn bunch with the back of his spatula.

Hard metal against a rim used to agitate Connor, forcing his palms against his ears as his eyelids fidgeted to combat the noise with another. Coming to his rescue, ears perked by the sudden grit of Connor’s teeth, Sumo wiggled underneath the dining table and rested his snout over the top of Connor’s lap. Well-aware that his warmth distracted Connor just enough, where Connor could peel his words and ask for Hank to find another way to scoop the last beans out. That was the same day -- where a plastic spatula joined the kitchen utility drawer and Hank used it for every can ever since.

Or, when Connor tasted the rice and felt it mush and stick against the roof of his mouth, elastic like a paste or like wet dough, the sensation nodded to a bit of nostalgia of when Connor bought a rice cooker for Hank. The days of dried rice and mushy rice and everything that didn’t fall in between were over. A simple, beautiful gadget took care of everything and for the time in months, Hank and Connor shared at the dining table a plate just-right rice. Enough, where Hank made a commotion with all of his gestures and swears and his pitiful jabs to himself of why he didn’t buy something like this sooner. And ever since, he dubbed Connor “Inspector Gadget” --  _ “You know this stuff better than I ever will,”  _ he told Connor.

The modern marvel of machinery wasn’t at its fullest height within the Anderson kitchen, but this was a new hill for Hank to inspect when he prodded at the rice cooker’s buttons. Fascinated by the steam function, mouth agape when other foods could be cooked within its convection heating, and quick to surf for recipes that will inevitably fail when Hank forgot to plug the rice cooker in. Simple mistakes on his part, but endearing moments sealed within Connor’s memory when he ate his beans and rice on that night in Uruk.

All of this nostalgia -- encapsulated within a simple phrase he heard through his earpiece.

 

_ So, too, she loved the world. In turn -- so, too, the world loved her. _

The thought may’ve been a whisper, fluttering from the nearby trees when Connor lowered his hand. A trickle of a few bangs slipped past his fingers when Connor moved away, and the strands bounced slightly over the crook of Kara’s nose. Just a moment before she opened her eyes and brushed back the strands for herself. The only world Connor could see in her eyes was a world with only him in it. Every shuffle, left or right, of his feet reflected the same image within Kara’s eyes when she followed Connor in his movements.

A bit of a smile faded just beneath the natural line before Connor’s lips parted. Perhaps, in this instance between touch and sight, all he needed was reassurance to lull his mind into ease. Reassurance, that the missing piece to his image wasn’t wandering in the red landscape underneath Uruk’s horizon. Reassurance, that it was possible to move on and pick up the pencil to his life’s story in Detroit. To feel the bookmark beneath his fingertips once more and uncover the page of where he last left off, perhaps Connor found that when Kara rested her quarter with him.

It was a vintage silver from the year 1964. Polished to mint condition, carefully placed when Kara rested the silver across Connor’s palm, and there was a warmth that flushed a pink of humanity along the sides of Connor’s neck before his fingers folded over the gift. Tightly, at first -- a reunion with the final piece that completed a tiny hole within his heart, if a quarter could hold its worth in such a way -- before his grip loosened. A  _ ‘thank you’  _ or a hug may’ve been appropriate, but all Connor could manage was a listless smile. Only a fraction of how he truly felt, but it was as much as his lips were willing to move.

It was more than anything Kara thought she would receive when she smiled for both herself and for Connor.

“I know it’s not much,” she began. A slight tilt to her head, mimicking Connor’s movements so she could feel as his equal. Not because of the distance between their divisions and line of work, but to bridge an awkwardness. Perhaps, to bridge a boundary that no one had ever walked across to meet Connor at where he was at. It was a first of any step -- definitely, not the last for Kara -- when she straightened the collar to Connor’s uniform. Swept the dust sand and sand off from his shoulders, and Connor expressed an endeariness that so many had yet to experience. “I’m not sure when we’ll meet again, so I wanted to return what you’ve given to me.”

_ ‘Hold on, just a little while longer’  _ \-- the resounding echo of the community hymn felt surreal when Kara finally caught Connor’s gaze. He was no longer running away, pushing himself into a corner, when he blinked. Something inside, something more alive than anyone had ever seen from him during their time in Uruk, revealed the complexities of an individual -- of whom, so many had only scratched the surface before going away. However, Kara took her time in slowly peeling away the layers until she found Connor on the other side. Until a lock slipped from its hinge without a key to open it, because one didn’t need a key to find what was inside.

To lift her gaze from Connor’s was what flushed over Kara’s gestures when a peculiar vehicle caught the corner of her eye. There was a truck parked near the pickup zone. Old and beaten up, but still in running condition when the vehicle was parked. A sag to one side as an elderly man stepped out from the driver’s seat -- in one hand, a to-go milkshake with the signature classic of  _ Chicken Feed  _ french fries peeking up from the lid’s mouth and in the other hand, what looked like a small, LED ring strung to a large battery of some sort. As if for a medical purpose -- Kara wasn’t sure, but she reasoned that it was for Connor.

As soon as Connor turned his head to look at what caught Kara’s attention, his entire posture changed. In front of Kara wasn’t Connor -- the soldier, the friend, and the man with a cause and his own convictions balanced behind his finger when asked to pull the trigger. In front of Kara was just a boy -- lost, but now found when Connor gathered his things.

One foot forward while the other remained in the past, anchoring Connor to a space he knew was safe. But ahead of him, there --  _ too  _ \-- was a safe haven that would welcome him with open arms. Just, partially forgotten and a bit unfamiliar. Just...

_ ‘Everything will be alright’  _ \-- the community hymn was a candle to guide Connor when he slipped from his perch upon the concrete slab. He angled the cap on his head, in such a way so that Hank couldn’t see his eyes, and he moved. One step at a time, the rattle of the tin box with all of his coins were the steady bit of reassurance that made it almost bearable to stand near the passenger seat of Hank’s truck. Not yet ready to enter when Connor set his duffel bag down. Fingers itched for a salute, but they remained loose against his side as words eventually found their purpose over his tongue.

_ “Everyone’s gotta die of something,”  _ Connor said. He hid his hands behind his back upon hearing the shuffle of Hank’s feet when he rocked back and forth over his shoes. “You told me that, just before I boarded the plane to Uruk.”

“It’s true.” Concrete fragments skidded underneath the truck when Hank kicked the over. Every mark, every jostle, and every echo seemed amplified to Connor’s senses. Not enough to stir him, but it was the littlest things that hitched his shoulders into a tense mass. As easily as it was for Connor to hide as a machine amongst Man, as it was easy as it was for Hank to coax him out from behind his shell when he rested his arms over the roof of his tongue. Slowly swirling around the  _ Chicken Feed  _ fries across the top of Connor’s milkshake. “You know what’s also true?”

A guess warranted a sweet treat, and Connor caught his milkshake when Hank slid it towards him. “What’s left of my sanity?” About to pick up a fry, but Connor thought better of it when he noticed the grimace streaked across Hank’s face before his expression softened up. A laugh about to slip, but it’d be too dark and Hank wasn’t one to follow Connor in his games.

“I’ll consider it, but nah.” Hank shrugged with a tease of a laugh upon his tongue before he shook his head. He lifted one of his hands and he pointed to the square of Connor’s chest. “What I mean is --  _ you’re alive.” _

_ ‘Alive’  _ \-- could such a word truly describe Connor when he met his reflection?, paneled across the expanse of the passenger window. Instead of himself, instead of Detroit, the battlefields of Uruk stared back at Connor. Blinking exactly when he did and the milkshake with fries in this reality were the flash bombs and switchblades of another. His mind knew which side of the line he was on in terms of realities but oh, it was so easy to just slip and fall to the other side. How could he be alive? While all of  _ this  _ was the real reflection of himself.

Hank wasn’t a doctor --  _ “I’m not a therapist,” Hank mentioned once when he snuggled against Connor’s side when the latter felt overstimulated  _ \-- but he knew a thing or two about listening. It was something he had to pick up when often, Connor barely said anything. About how he felt, about what he thought, about what he wanted or needed or felt scared of when the mind was just another enemy. Too personal and it knew all of his scars. In those moments, Hank was always there for him. Never once did he leave Connor on his own. Not then and especially, not now.

“It’d be a fool’s thought process if I assumed that not a speck of you is still wandering in Uruk somewhere,” Hank pointed to the setting horizon with his chin, “armed and ready in case a trigger is pointed at you.”

Hank came around the side of his truck and slipped the LED ring over Connor’s right temple. Perched it between where Connor’s forehead ended and where his thoughts began, carefully slipping the LED’s wire over and down the slope of Connor’s ear and neck. Down the shoulder and into the back pocket, where Hank deposited the battery. One hand at Connor’s arm -- a sense of touch to keep Connor’s heart rate and breathing steady -- and the other switched the LED on.

Red flickered in the whites of Hank’s eyes before yellow whirled around for a few moments until a blue LED shone back at him. An almost perfect reflection of Connor’s stress levels and how his thoughts tampered the humanity within him --  _ ‘almost perfect’,  _ for yellow flickered in the brief second that Hank pulled his hand away from Connor.

“I know you that you know, but I’ll say it again.” Not much of a hugger, Hank opted to ruffle Connor’s hair instead. Every loose strand was like a bit of silk running underneath his palm when Connor received his daily bit of ruffles, a sort of  _ ‘hobby’  _ he picked up from Sumo when a soft touch conveyed more than words alone. “I’ll always be here when you need me.”

For the first time in years, there was a genuine smile across the line of Connor’s lips. Perhaps from the salt and sweet of a milkshake-dipped fry, perhaps from seeing all the dog hairs on the passenger seat when Sumo kept it warm from him for every night in the past three years, perhaps from a quick joke spilled by Hank to test the waters between them, and perhaps when Connor heard the jangle of his dog tag. Of how his medal plates  _ clacked  _ against each other, and the sound said,  _ “I am alive.” _

Just as Hank adjusted the rearview mirror, Connor saw movement from a little girl. Spilling out from a car, about two vehicles behind. Running, with every breath like a maple leaf drifting in the wind, she leapt into Kara’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> In times like this, I wish I was a native-English speaker. There were so many things that I wanted to describe and talk about, and it must’ve sounded strange or confusing. Nonetheless, trying to find the words and English phrases/translations for what I wanted to convey was fun. In a way, it worked really well for this story, I think. **:D**
> 
> Originally, there was going to be a Markus section in this story with his flashback moment and his reunion with Leo and Carl. However, as soon as he was introduced, Markus wanted to high-jack the story and I had to stop him. However, I did spend some time on writing his narrative so I wanted to share it. Enjoy.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  _July 27th - 0317:42_ _  
> _ _The earthquake hit._
> 
>  _July 27th - 0732:51_ _  
> _ _The second wave._
> 
>  _July 27th - 0948:01_ _  
> _ _Dawn had mercy on us all._
> 
> An eye for an eye -- for a moment, the world seemed blind. A haze of soot and dust blanketed the political rift in Uruk’s valley. Each side suffered the same fate, each side rounded to the same call as Jericho teams issued their aid and searched within the rubble for the fallen, for the deceased, for the breathing, and for the sliver of the sunrise when God showed His face after what had been done. When light crept its fingers over the horizon, much as a frightened child had done the same when peering over their mother’s body, it was the eyes of Jericho that turned away and beckoned for the light to come.
> 
> Where two cities once stood, only the skeletons remained. Of bent infrastructures, crumbling domains, shattered and beyond repair, and still the search commenced to find every person who couldn’t make it out on their own. The light proved itself a coward when it retreated from the rubble as Jericho teams dug into the heart of the destruction. Medical teams from near and far descended into the cities like godsend. One could turn in any direction and feel the breeze as doctors, nurses -- _anyone_ \-- scampered through the terrain with stretchers, medicine, and first aid.. For the first time, the political strife in Uruk’s valley was forgotten as neighbors were helping neighbors. When pushed to the edge of oblivion, that was what humanity did in order to survive.


End file.
